Center Stage
by Reigning Rats
Summary: Alfred couldn't be sure when things got so twisted, when the world turned against him and things descended into chaos. Now he can only try to claw his way back up, fighting his own mind. Rated M for being very twisted. RusAme, FACE family, suck summary.
1. Chapter 1

**May 3**

The thump of marching feet and a surreal moan of ethereal joy paraded through an endless sky with a bleeding sun sinking below some unfathomable horizon while the ghosts of dead men raked weary feet across a barren plain. He watched as a third party, wishing to do something and understanding his surroundings but his mind was cloyed with desperation. It wasn't right. Never had been. But he smiled and it was okay and the world was right and things were on the up and up and he could pretend it had never hap-

"Mr. Jones!"

A sickening swirl of all too bright colors collided with one another as his eyes fluttered and Alfred rejoined the world of the living with a jolt. Blearily, he looked up at Mrs. Chelles. A lazy grin was already beginning to form as he leaned back and stretched, shoulders popping and jaw going slack. He slumped and she frowned. It was comfortable familiarity.

Mrs. Chelles huffed, arms crossing over the thin fabric of her sun dress, "Honestly, if you're not going to pay any attention, don't bother coming to class."

He shrugged, crossing his arms in tender relaxation, "I'll take you up on that."

Another huff and she returned to the head of the class, explaining the intricacies of a fish's innards before tomorrow's dissection of a baby shark. Alfred didn't care for Marine Biology. The elective was a filler, meaningless and easily forgotten. Mrs. Chelles could fail him miserably and Alfred could care less. Such was the way of a high school senior.

Lazily resting a hand within his palm, an indecipherable gaze was thrown to the open window. Tree tops and blue skies and golden glow from the star lending its warmth to Earth. Alfred smiled softly, enjoying the view. The counters blurred and the books became caustic lumps of offending color upon a surface that no longer made sense as he lost himself. Marine Biology be damned; he didn't care. There were more important things, things like the tree tops and blue skies and golden glow from the star lending its warmth to Earth. Everything before and beyond lost validity and became inconsequential.

**May 4**

Grades and tests, quizzes and readings, assignments he could care less about and peers he held nothing but disdain for. The school was average as was the student body. The cliches were obvious and the food was horrible. Nameless, faceless, _meaningless_ throngs of young adults shoved into a concrete hell of lectures and text. Do this, do that, Mr. and Mrs., go there, go here, stay away, _get away_.

Alfred heaved another sigh, hiking a juice box onto his bent knee as he leaned against the roof top fencing. The sky was clear and the breeze was a light touch against his heated skin. Gym had been another uneventful day of the athletically gifted flaunting the few skills that would carry them to a life of middle aged obesity and mediocre careers. Those who could not compete or chose to stand aside gossiped to one another, jealous and envious and wary.

"Alfred F. Jones! Get your bloody ass inside right this moment."

"I'm eating," he grumbled, half hearted.

Figured. Arthur _would_ show up when he felt at peace. Red spilled across the loose gravel as his hold upon the juice-box loosened and it fell unceremoniously to its shallow grave. Brown bag desolate and forgotten, Alfred stood, swiped himself of any clinging debris, and smiled. Arthur didn't seem as pleased. He face pinched in rage as a scowl darkened his features: foreboding and commanding. Too gentle and too kind.

"Yea, yea, I'm suspended. Just wanted to eat before we went. Didn't figure you'd get here so soon," he chirped, hands deep within his pockets as he fingers twiddled the lint and he felt ashamed from toying with kindred spirits. "Job still shit because of the economy?"

"Don't talk to me that way, you fucker," Arthur hissed, pushing Alfred back into the building and towards the stairs. "Let's go."

"Yea, dad, let's go."

He smiled, wistful and ignorant and pained and serene.

He didn't remember and wouldn't allow himself. The faces of those with helping hands or harsh blows co-mingled with one another till one was no different than the other. She was beautiful as was he. Dark hair and dark eyes, light skin and calloused flesh. A rugged couple brought together by wilderness and separated only by who they were and what they could not become. Harmonious and all at once beautiful. It made him sick. Rolling hills and dipping valleys and a corpse to feed the wildlife.

** May 3**

They were to play soccer, teams split by random. Allies gathered on like sides and faced one another as the ball was brought into play. The P.E. teacher looked on, bored, as the students haphazardly chased after the ball and dove and kicked madly, hoping for a goal from half field. Alfred cut the ball off before it reached the goal, stopping it with his thigh as he brought it down, tripped, and ran forward. The others grouped around him, feet protruding in an attempt to trip him. A quarter way down the field one succeeded.

When he looked up, there was blue and violet and ashy blond and a mass of unfamiliar Russian smiling down at him as a teammate stole the ball back and continued with the offensive assault. He stood, smiling as his unknown aggressor smiled. Naive and innocent, warm and amiable. His shorts rustled as he stood, dirt clinging to his knees and blades of grass falling back into the arms of its brethren. Blue skies and an almost imperceptible height different. Warmth and a pillowing breeze.

His hand pulled back, cheap shot landing as he laughed brightly. Hands on hips and pleased smile gracing his lips, he watched as the strange student crumpled and fell onto the field. A mother long gone and social workers who no longer cared. Why should he give a damn anymore either? Heaven wasn't a place one went when they died. It was that moment in life when one finally felt alive. Alfred was floating on cloud nine as he watched the teacher phone for an ambulance. He left the field, knowing the protocol without being told.

Gym was already over and so was he.

**May 4**

"Why can't you just behave? I thought I raised a gentlemen, not some barbarian!"

Alfred shrugged, uncaring. With knees pulled to his chest and frame curled against the car seat, he didn't feel a particular need to answer.

"Honestly, you're infuriating. I'm ashamed to call you my son, lad."

"I know, dad," he murmured, staring out the window.

Clouds had moved in; the sky had been shrouded. He smiled.

"That's okay. You can always try again with another kid when I move out."

Arthur bristled, hands gripping the steering wheel as he hung a harsh right and sat straight, "Now, you know that's not what I meant. I love you, Alfred. You're just a handful."

"You should try an Asian kid next. He'd probably be well tempered," Alfred suggested, looking over to his father figure.

Light skin and calloused flesh and a corpse for the wildlife to feed upon, a carcass left in the bushes to be eaten by maggots. One with the earth, dark hair and dark eyes and beauty. They had been beautiful.

"Alfred!" Arthur was once more agitated, emerald gaze boring into his son's own stare. "Be reasonable!"

"I am," came the reply. Alfred nodded, turning his attention back to the window. His words were sincere and tone even, face pulled back into something akin to sluggish tranquility. Rolling hills and marching feet and helping hands. He couldn't tell one from the other and that was alright. "I'm serious. Not hurt at all. Can we just go home? I'm beat."

"Sure, lad."

**May 7**

"Hey, Matt."

"Al, it's four in the morning on a Saturday. Why're you up?"

". . ."

"Nightmares, eh?"

He smiled.

"Barrens fields and bleeding suns and rolling hills and dipping valleys."

"You sound like a bad book of poetry."

"You'd know, lit major."

"Shut it, Al. I'm tired."

"Rolling hills and dipping valleys, Matt."

There was reverence in his voice.

"Go to sleep."

"Alright, morning, bro."

"Night, Al."

He lay awake, staring at the stickers of the planetary system plastered to his ceiling. A tone sounded from the speakers of his cell, drawing out the distance that much further before everything fell back into a quiet lull.

There was a time when he was loved. The kids in school adored him, flocked to him, plunged their hands into the depths of everything he was and devoured the sparse individuality he clung to. Adoration was something like love, right? There was a hand on a cheek, stroking and gentle. Her skin was dark. She was dark. Like earth and bark and brown beetles. He had been freedom, independence and she had hated him. But there was love, adoration, the lines seemed to blur till the wasteland of morality stretched on and on with nothing to separate the opposites of yesteryear.

**May 9**

The appendage hovered lamely in the stagnant air of a high school far too quiet for midday Monday. His smile was warm and friendly, lacking malice and gleaming far too brightly. "So, no harm done? You just caught me on a bad day."

"_Nyet_."

Alfred lay on his back, staring at tiles and florescent bulbs. The right side of his face throbbed, a bruise no doubt already beginning to take form as he just _stared_ dumbly. There had been a time when he was loved, adored, by Arthur, by Francis, by Matthew, by Antonio. But then a marriage doomed to fail fell through. He stayed with a heavily embittered Arthur and Francis fled to Quebec with Matthew in tow. Like all young love, Antonio had drifted, alienating himself and making goodbyes or we're overs trivial as he came to pursue a new venture: an Italian freshman transfer named Lovino. He hadn't particularly cared at the time. There were still kids at school who adored him.

The shards of relationships then soured drove deep into the soft tissues of his skull and began rotting away any sort of connection Alfred could maintain. Freshmen year, he had lost his friends. Sophomore year, he had decked a teacher, nearly been expelled, and was exiled by the student and staff body alike. Junior year, he had given up trying. Senior year, Alfred lost touch.

He laughed, the sound brilliant and clear. Sitting up on shaking arms, head reeling, he held out a hand, "Alfred Jones."

There was a moment of hesitation on the other boy's face before he extended his hand and palms clasped wrists. Alfred was hoisted back up, swaying, before he righted himself and they detached from one another. The Russian stood tall, imposing and a frightful sight. Alfred smiled.

"Ivan Braginski."

They departed with a sense of mutual distrust and comradeship.

**May 11**

Blue, blue, skies.

Rolling hills and dipping valleys and corpses and unmarked graves and memories and forests and wildlife and maggots and disease and hatred and elation.

Broken. Friend. Family. Relationships. Love.

Marching feet and a bleeding sun.

Ghosts of soldiers who died for some lost cause with their guns in tow, straps pulled too tightly around flesh and bone, cutting into soft flesh, with the cloying sweetness of copper and desperation lingering as they march on and joined a chorus of forgotten voices. A field of red roses blossom and he can see beauty. The petals wither and stems sag as the sun dies and there are no stars. It's dark and it is beautiful and he hates the stars. Where is here? He isn't sure. But it's peaceful and painful and he wants to get away but it's so comfortable beneath the finger tips of a weeping willow as a stream laps at his toes. Shot, bang, maggots. Rolling hills and dipping valleys. The ground is flat and he is lying in dirt and blood but it's comfortable and he breathes deeply and feels the earth shudder below him.

There's a moan of ethereal joy and it's his. His arm aches; his back aches; he wants to cry but knows it won't come.

He opens his eyes and isn't sure if the sheets clutched between weary fingers is real. The screams might be his but he can't tell. Dry wall and plaster and stained carpeting, they may belong to him but he isn't fucking _sure_.

Arthur isn't home and it's still so very early where Matthew is. Where Francis is. He wants to call his mother so he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Dear Father who art thou in Heaven- "

The words are bitter. He isn't religious.

"Please forgive me for my sins and deliver me from this hell."

What is sin and what is hell and what is he?

Alfred whimpers and curls against his pillow, unsure if he should open his eyes and chance the non-reality he's seated within. "Mom, I really need you. I need you really bad."

"Rolling hills," he whispers. "Dipping valleys, mom, mom, why'd you let him do it? Maggots and corpses and blood and trees and weeping willows and soldiers. Mom."

He cannot remember her but feels an inhuman attachment to her memory.

**May 12**

Alfred realizes Ivan is in his first class of the day a bit late. Before, he had been too engrossed in the sky to pay his surroundings much attention. Today, clouds over took the horizon and he could see nothing but tree tops and white clouds. His day was already soured. So, with a bitter curve of the lips, he turned his attention to Mrs. Chelles. He had no idea what she was prattling on about. He didn't particularly care.

A sway of ashen blonde caught his attention as his lazy gaze slid to the left and landed on Ivan's back. Muted peach and sullied white. The colors were dreary but they were interesting. He could buy into them, at least for the rest of class. With a small smile and roll of his shoulders, Alfred spent the rest of Marine Biology staring at Ivan's back. Whether his classmate noticed the attentions or not, Alfred found he wasn't concerned. Let come what may.

The third day of staring Ivan turned around. Alfred continued staring, smoldering violet adding itself to the mix of colors as he blocked out the outside world and focused solely on color. He couldn't tell what Ivan was attempting to convey through looks alone. The effort would have sapped what little energy Alfred still possessed. Feigning ignorance, he continued staring. When Ivan turned his attention back to the teacher, Alfred looked away.

Tearing a sheet from his notebook, he quickly scrawled out a message and slipped it onto the oak of Ivan's desk, leaning close and holding his breath. His note sat unnoticed till the end of class. He gathered his books and left the room. There was no significance to his written words.

He had to get to English. Alfred hated the class, but Matthew loved it. For that reason, he tried his best and still failed. Reading Shakespeare and King and Ellingson and Dickinson became too painful for him to properly pay attention and excel. He missed Matthew and wished his brother well. He wasn't religious, but he prayed that Matthew would realize how hard he tried most days.

And sometimes he wondered if Matthew understood though he knew his brother didn't.

Moran and Rhein and Portch seared into his flesh and tore the marrow from his bones as he shifted in his seat, raised his hand, and reiterated lines that were hypocrisy in ink and bitter truth on paper. No one understood and he never expected them to, but he smiled when Toris leaned over and clapped a hand onto his shoulders, silently congratulating him.

Toris did not understand though he tried. They had once been friends but Alfred had severed the tie between them. Like the rest, Toris left and Alfred wallowed in a shallow pool of self loathing while he exchanged nods and hellos with his former friend when they passed in the hall. He would raise a hand and give a hearty wave, a savoury smile, and the world would seem brighter but he would be breaking within and no one was the wiser.

"_To all my family and friends, from whom I hear from now and then_," Alfred read near the end of class, "_Just wanted to say that I love you each and every day_."

The teacher nodded, nonchalant and intrigued, "And what about that line, Mr. Jones?"

It's bullshit.

No one really feels that way.

It's a lie and it's pretty and it's what we all want to believe but it's a fucking lie.

"It's really touching, you know? Like, every person you've ever met you still care for and remember," Alfred began, waving the set of poems through the air as if beckoning some higher philosophical being to come into his body and help him not make such a fool of himself as the entirety of the class stared. "That no matter how little time you spend with those you were once close to, you still feel a kind of connection with them. It's optimistic and idealistic and I like it. Joy Flake must have been a nice gal."

It's a fucking lie but he smiles, leans back in his seat, and looks goddamn pleased with the half assed answer he was able to let spill across his lips. Only he knows that the words are hollow. Toris brushes his hand across Alfred's forearm, imploring and friendly. Alfred looks towards his forgotten friend, widens his grin, and throws the other boy a thumbs up. The Lithuanian laughs and goes back to diligently paying attention. Alfred goes back to staring at the chalkboard. Dirtied black with smears of graying white and muddied yellow.

He thinks his obsession with color borders on the insane but so long as no one else knows, it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters so long as no one knows. He can keep his secrets and they can keep theirs and the world will be right. Truth in lies and lies in truth. The lines are blurred and he can't distinguish between them any longer. Is this the here and now or has time collapsed? The here and now is bleak and it isn't real.

The scratch of rough cotton against his skin isn't truly there and the cool feel of polished oak beneath his clenching fists does not exist. This is not reality and this is not his body. His thoughts are not his own and the world is right.

_Just wanted to say, that I love you and I hope you love me too._

_

* * *

_**A/N:This is a dinky, has really no effort put into it, story that may or may not ever be finished that I do when I feel like kicking a puppy but choose instead to torture fictional characters. I call it therapy. It gets less confusing after this. Anyway, there are a few notes I'd appreciate you all to read before reviewing (if you even do, cue pointed stare at readers). Over all, it's a commentary on the treatment of Native Americans, psychological disorders, and the broken American family. It will cover topics like sexual abuse, physical abuse, drug use, bulimia and other eating disorders, a psychological disorder called derealization, and probably a few other angst bombs I've forgotten or am going to throw in. It's overall America-centric and Russia/America; it's (sort of) a high school AU with human names being used. Mrs. Chelles is Seychelles (because I'm lazy and unimaginative). The poem material is "Family and Friends" by Joy Flake. Yea. Please, excuse any lingering mistakes in spelling, grammar, or word usage. English isn't my first language and I had to do the editing myself.**


	2. Chapter 2

**June 17**

Matthew and Francis came over for a weekend. The first family reunion since the divorce. Things began awkward and the tension had yet to abate. Arthur stood beside a charred over grill, patties turning to charcoal as he waved a stick threateningly. The impromptu picnic had not been planned. The charcoal, patties, and buns had been taken from a family just departing with no need for the materials any longer. Matthew had found a stick and stripped the bark before handing it over to be a make-shift spatula.

He sat beneath a giant oak, staring at the murky waters of some unnamed lake in a park he never bothered to visit before. His brother sat beside him, watching the fight unfold as their food burned and the prospects of a loving family gathering shattered.

"So," Matthew began, tearing his gaze from Arthur and Francis to Alfred, "why do you keep calling me in the morning?"

Alfred shrugged, smiling lazily as he sunk into the earth and willed it to swallow him whole, "It's just about some stuff I dream about. It's really weird."

His brother nodded, "Well, cut it out. Some of us need to sleep, eh?"

He laughed, swatting Matthew's back and forgetting himself as his brother heaved forward and gave a resentful glare, "Geeze, Matt, okay. No need to be suck a stick in the mud. You know, I met a guy. I really like him."

"What happened to Mei?" Matthew squawked.

Alfred shrugged, chuckling, "Not my type. We broke it off a while ago. We're still friends."

_I hate the hate that has created my war._

_ I hate the hate that has stolen my grace._

"Wanna talk about it?" Matthew asked, dreading a yes and hating himself for it.

Thankfully, Alfred shook his head.

_America oh America, You ignorant fools of filth, You bastards of retail and hypocrisy, You sicken me to death You sickened me into turmoil and waste The way your greed overcomes with pleasures and unsatisfactory Working hands to the bone as a hobby is, Un honorable and inhumane, While screaming death into the faces of your neighbors America oh America, the path of the insensible._

"So, how've you and Arthur been?"

Matthew doesn't want to know but knows he should at least ask. He can only pray his brother is reluctant to talk about it and the thought sickens him.

Another shrug on Alfred's part, "Pretty good."

**May 15**

"Sorry, officer, I'll give him a stern talking to," Arthur mumbled, voice curt.

He ushers Alfred inside, hand pressed too firmly to Alfred's lower back, but the teen follows the silent commands and goes to wait in the living room. He can hear their conversation. Gilbert is going to let him off with another warning so long as Arthur keeps Alfred the hell away from his younger brother and doesn't put on a repeat performance of attempting to burn down the local church while wasted. In the car ride over, Alfred had sobered up but reality lay somewhere on the wayside as he lounged on the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table.

The door shut with a soft click and Arthur came into the living room, face red. He was livid; Alfred knew without having to look.

"What in _bloody hell_ gave you the idea that was _okay_ to do? I thought I raised you right!" Arthur howled, throwing his hands into the air in a comical display of frustration. Alfred chuckled but Arthur was unamused. "You're not ten. You can't go around doing these kinds of things. How can I trust to leave you home alone if you keep doing this?"

**June 17**

_America oh America, Look what you have done, Look into the eyes of the millions of innocents, You slaughter and murdered Murderous dogs is what you are Your rules and laws, Won't hide your shame Your painstaking idiotic ness to substance abuse Your lack of a mind in lies so high Oh America oh America, your all children of fools._

"He really wants me to try harder in school but you know me, intelligence of a lead weight," and Alfred laughs but Matthew doesn't join in. "You know the hero always prevails, though. He totally forgives me in the end, bro, then everything is cool again."

Alfred knows he's lying and so does Matthew but neither comment.

**May 15**

"You could always phone Dan up. I wouldn't mind hanging out with my older bro at all, man," Alfred drawls, fingers twisted in the loose threads of his sweatshirt.

The sleeve is singed. He had tripped while holding the lighter to the church greeting sign, nearly lighting himself on fire before he regained balance. The whole ordeal had been laughed off and he went about his merry way of getting the world to hold still _just_ long enough so he could get the edge to burn.

"There is no fucking way I'm letting you near him!" Arthur put in quickly.

They both knew Dan had become a trouble maker ever since leaving Arthur's adoptive care. Because of it, Arthur paid his second eldest son special sorts of attention. When the Brit would come home, a bit tipsy from having had a few drinks at a nearby pub after work, he would phone up Dan and lecture. The lecture soon gave way to wild sobbing and Alfred would creep from his room, always unable to sleep, and go to Arthur. They would fight and Alfred would apologize, say he'd try harder and do his best. But his best was never his best and even his best wasn't good enough. But he would console Arthur, set him to bed, and then return to his own room.

He would dream of marching feet and the ghosts of soldiers and a mother he can't remember and a father he won't remember.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, alright. Why don't you go get your scotch?" Alfred puts in, arms crossing as a pout worked across his lips.

His father reels back, taken off guard by the weighted suggestion and accusation.

"I am not a drunk!"

Yes, you are.

"Yes, you are."

"Lad, don't test my patience."

"Go fuck yourself." Petulant, slurred. He's not sober, he never was and this isn't real. But the hand that dashes roughly across his cheek must be real because it stings and his hand shoots up to cover the growing warmth blossoming across his cheekbone. "You're getting old. That didn't hurt at all."

Alfred stood, hands in his pockets, as he swayed and made his way upstairs to his room. He slumped against the wall to regain his bearings before continuing on with chin held high. Stiff, British upper lip. He slumps, posture going slack. Uncouth American disobedience. He smiles and it hurts but he loves it.

**June 17**

"How're things with Francis?" Alfred questions, honestly curious as he turns earnest topazes, clouded with something neither want to acknowledge, towards his brother.

It's Matthew's turn to shrug as he glances away and a dusting of pink coats his cheeks, "Same old. Chasing after tail left and right."

For his comment, Matthew receives a punch to the arm, meant to be playful but more painful than anything, "That sounds like something I'd say, Matt!"

_America oh America, So intolerable So unbearable Clones of generations passed down long ago While misusing peer pressure so pro found in rows Revolution, Ha, its a mass misconception Land of the free is so laughable While intelligence and art is your victim, Making capitalism, fascism, democracy and bureaucracy your form of disguise America oh America, When will the hating just turn and wave good-bye?_

This isn't a family, not any longer. They both know it. Long ago, they had been adopted by Arthur and Francis, a married couple at ends with one another. Things soon soured and the pair divorced, Francis taking Matthew to Canada and leaving Alfred in Arthur's care in New York so he could faithfully miss his brother deeply. They were barely six when the split occurred and the two, the ones related by blood and not some misconstrued sense of family, didn't speak till they were thirteen. Once communication had been bridged and awkwardness abated, the two grew closer.

Matthew punched Alfred's arm in return, focusing on hitting hard and succeeding when his brother rubbed at his arm and jutted out his lower lip.

"We are brothers, you idiot," Matthew scolded, scowled. He hated being compared to Alfred. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Smiles and Laughs, Mr. Popular. Fuck Alfred, Matthew could hardly stand him most days though he put up with the constant abuse out of some misguided sense of brotherhood. "You're rubbing off on me way too much, eh."

Then Alfred grew apart and left Matthew yearning for an answer. That need for some sort of explanation dissolved into bitterness and soon lapsed into jealousy and spite. Over the phone, Arthur only spoke praises about Alfred. He was well liked by his classmates, quarterback on the football team, dating a beautiful and intellectual Asian transfer student. He worked at a local bakery, easily paying for his own things and preparing for an ivy league university.

Alfred had heard Arthur talking about him and knew it to be a lie but he wanted Matthew and Francis to believe it. He kept his mouth shut and let Arthur fool the others into thinking he had raised a prodigy, that Alfred really mattered, that he had lucked out and chosen the better of the brothers. It was to win some silly, unspoken rivalry between he and Francis. Alfred didn't have the will to tear down the man who raised him and reveal the truth of the lies: nonexistent. He had long ago reasoned, enabling him to deal with the guilt of being an accessory to horrendous dishonesty, that if he revealed the truth within the lies he could say nothing and have uncovered the fibs. There was no truth in the lies Arthur told so there was no truth for Alfred to reveal. Somehow, it made sense to him.

_America oh America, Live and let live is appalling in your eyes To your minds sight, You press until they suffocate, while falsifying your murderous light, That you so un rightly slam into the night Lost arts are better lost to you, All in reason for many a few So afraid of an up rise, you shake in your scuffed boots A little bit of paranoia makes fools out of you America oh America, shedding light on paranoid degrees with so much un ease and many over dues._

"I'll so let you be my side kick. No worries, Matt."

They both tossed their heads back, skulls _thunking_ against the bark of the tree they leaned against, and laughed.

"I really like this guy though. His name's Ivan."

**May 26**

Two weeks after Alfred had punched out Ivan's lights, they had begun a sort of routine. During Marine Biology, they would sit side by side, exchanging notes and mutually ignoring Mrs. Chelles despite her constant calls for attention from the duo. Afterward, they would depart to their respective classes: Alfred to English and Ivan to Chemistry. They reconvened at lunch and ate on the roof, breaking school rules but both too world wary to really care if a teacher caught them.

Again they would depart when lunch ended. Ivan went to Calculus III and Alfred to Algebra II. They came together once more for Computer Technology, IMing back and forth despite sitting across from one another, as they half heartedly finished assignments on the iMacs before them. The bell would ring, signaling the end of another stroll into the wonderful world of the educational system, and they would walk home together. As it turned out, Ivan lived a few apartment buildings down, by himself, from where Alfred lived with Arthur.

They never saw one another outside of school and the short walk home. Quietly, through hurried glances and drawn out sighs, they agreed to a tentative friendship but nothing more. Friendly touches were never exchanged and caring words never left their lips. It was a reserved sort of kinship where neither party was willing to forfeit anything significant. It was an agreed upon principle of their friendship.

**June 2**

Another week passed and the routine changed. Alfred didn't show up to class, any class as Ivan found out by questioning Toris. Ivan grew mutely worried as the days passed and Alfred still did not show. No one had seen him anywhere near campus. Five days into Alfred's mysterious disappearance, Ivan had almost decided to go snooping around his friend's apartment complex but thought better of it when he saw a police car parked out front.

**June 17**

"Why do you like him so much? And you know Arthur will have a fit if you tell him," because Matthew already knew Alfred hadn't told his father.

Alfred brought his knees to his chest and looked over the lake, gaze following the swell and eventual evaporation of each gentle wave as a breeze caressed his cheek and lulled him into an honest serenity.

"I told him about the rolling hills and dipping valleys and he understood."

Matthew nodded, confused but unwilling to press the matter further.

_America oh America, Fools is all you please You're the disease that needs to dropp off, And leave, immediately, Won't you please? A blood lust runs in your veins with such ease upon ease Maybe if looked harder you would develop a sense of humanity, Underneath all that greed Senseless and blood thirsty, is all you know America oh America, When will your oppressive grip, just let go?_

**June 9**

When Alfred appeared on Ivan's doorstep, drenched and overly energetic, the door had opened wider and the sparsely furnished interior of Ivan's living room was opened up to the teen. It was a breach of their unspoken pact but Ivan found himself uncaring towards what they had.

"Thanks," Alfred drawled, peeling his t-shirt off and tossing it onto the carpet.

Ivan smiled, a small and foreboding thing, "I would greatly appreciate it were you to hang up your wet clothing in the bathroom. I will bring you something dry."

For a moment, Alfred seemed shocked before he bent over and picked up his discarded article of clothing. With a shrug, he went down the hall in search of the bathroom while Ivan fled in the opposite direction to search out a suitable set of replacement clothing. The two came together once more, Alfred stark naked in the middle Ivan's living room and looking overly comfortable. Ivan had enough sensibility to look away and blindly hand over the dry wad of fabric in his arms.

The change was quick, the sliding of cotton against tanned flesh the only indication that the act had taken place. When there was fragile silence once more, Ivan looked back at his friend and found Alfred to be sitting uneasily on the couch. He was unprepared for what left the American's lips.

"There's always rolling hills and dipping valleys and a bleeding sun and dark hair and dark eyes and I look like him," Alfred rambled, staring at the couch cushions and poking a well worn area."And ghosts of soldiers with bodies and guns. Sometimes there's a willow and I'm lying under it and my feet are in a stream but I'm always in mud and blood and must enjoy it."

"I. . . do not understand," Ivan said, unsure of himself and what was to transpire.

It was then that Alfred looked up, eyes two gems shoved into his skull as they clouded over and Ivan could recognize that stare. He had seen it in the mirror after the passing of his parents and guardianship of General Winter. His friend's mouth was drawn up into a taught grin, the expression devoid of anything pleasant. His adam's apple bobbed as Alfred swallowed, once, twice. He was uncomfortable. They were uncomfortable. But Alfred didn't care. This didn't feel real and the colors set him on edge. Dull creams and shades of violet and maroon. Mismatched splotches of things he couldn't understand.

"Arthur and Francis adopted me and Matt. We're actual brothers. I don't remember my mom much. Not what she really looked like but I know me and Matt look like our dad."

Bob, bob.

This wasn't real, the admission was void, Alfred told himself this.

"Dad was an asshole. I can remember him yelling stuff at mom and he took us on a trip to North Dakota. Mom wanted to go hiking and see some Indian burial sites so dad shot her. I was hiding behind a bush 'cause I wanted to scare them."

Ivan nodded, hands toying with the edge of his scarf. A security blanket. He knew he shouldn't be listening to this.

"Matt doesn't know. Nobody knows. Dad shot himself too and nobody told Matt and I never told him and nobody told Arthur and I can't care anymore. Can I stop talking?"

Alfred's eyes were imploring now, staring at Ivan and drawn to the light violet of the others irises. They were entrancing and he found himself slowly standing, not one with his body or time or space or reality or physics or English or family or dark hair and dark skin and rolling hills and dipping valleys and the ghosts of dead soldiers and bleeding suns and he kissed Ivan, lightly and inquisitively. This wasn't reality, it didn't matter, so he pressed more firmly and felt as Ivan hesitantly returned the gesture. They couldn't have a relationship, not a normal one, but Alfred had never been drawn to normality and he hoped Ivan hadn't too.

**June 17**

"We kissed, you know. I'm gonna move in with him," Alfred informed his brother, rising slowly and stretching.

Holding out his hand, Matthew waited patiently for his brother to help him up, "Arthur is going to be so mad at you, Al."

Alfred shrugged, hoisting Matthew up as he grinned widely and jabbed a thumb towards the still bickering pair of ex-husbands, "Let's go eat. There's still some buns we can munch on and I'm starving."

* * *

**A/N: I hate me too, so don't feel bad for any malice directed towards me. Again, as usual, been very busy with work and butt loads of drama. Surprisingly, I have a lot of stuff done and half done. Cause I'm cool like that, amirite? Anyway, chapter two. Anti-climactic. It gets better from here. I think. Poems materials from "I Hate That I Hate" by Adalie Hettie and"Murderous Dogs" by Adam Hollingsworth.**** Please excuse any lingering errors, not my first language. Yea, yea. I've decided that every 10th reviewer will get a one-shot of their choosing. Blahblah. Read, review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**June 21**

Matthew called a few nights after the family get together, too curious for his own good and knowing nothing significant could come of the conversation. Yet, he felt his hand fumbling with his cell phone, flipping the device open as he dialed Alfred's number. He knew it by heart and doubted Alfred could say the same. Pressing the cool plastic to his ear, he stared at his laptop, willing the device to bestow the knowledge of _why_ he was calling his insufferable brother. Something ached in his chest, constantly, and images of Alfred would flutter through his mind.

The phone rang once, twice, thrice. Alfred answered, an easy going hello sounded from the other line while screeching persisted in the background.

"Al?" Matthew squeaked, a bit startled by the noise.

There was laughter. It sounded wrong but so like Alfred that Matthew couldn't bring himself to question it.

"Yea, Matt?" A pause. "Sorry, Arthur's throwing a hissy fit. Maybe this isn't the best time."

"Yea, maybe it's not," Matthew agreed, continuing on. "Look, I'll call you later toni-"

"He fucked me, Matt."

Another squeak from Matthew. He hadn't been expecting Alfred to be so blunt, say it with such light hearted reverence, such obvious malicious intent. Now he could hear Arthur clearly, nearly screaming. For a moment, Matthew _almost_ felt sorry for his brother but the feeling was fleeting and quickly fled.

"What?" Matthew sputtered. "The hell, Al!"

"Ivan, I mean," Alfred clarified, sounding at ease even as the rustling proceeded. Matthew was utterly confused, having difficulty understanding Alfred as something happened to his brother on the other line. "We went on a date to this shitty B-movie yesterday and I slept over at his place. We both got drunk and he fucked me right into the mattress, nice and hard. He said my ass was tight and I liked it."

There were no words. Matthew couldn't scrape up any semblance of a reply as his thoughts scattered and mouth opened and closed comically. Why was Alfred telling him this? His mind was reeling, taking in the information, picturing it, and trying to completely crush it. So disturbing, so unwanted, so like Alfred.

Matthew was by no means a virgin. For the past three years he had been going steady with a Ukrainian student at his school. They were madly in love but Alfred had made the topic taboo territory, refusing to say anything save for "Kat's boobs are something I could really lose myself in, _boing_, _boing_, baby!" and "Seriously, you talking about her is giving me a stomach ache. Sickly sweet, bro". The comments hurt, cut deep where Matthew refused to acknowledge them. He had long ago pledged to never let Alfred near Katyusha.

Belatedly, just a day ago, he had learned that Katyusha was Ivan's older sister. The knowledge made his skin crawl but he loved her _so_ much that the thought of separating over something so trivial, so _stupid_, made his head throb and stomach plummet to his feet. Matthew loved Katyusha but could not say that he loved his brother. Whenever he entertained those thoughts, a coil of guilt knotted tightly within his gut.

"Al, I-"

He never got the chance to continue on, having finally formulated something to say. The line went dead, silence filling his bedroom as he pulled the phone back and stared down at it dumbly. Vaguely, he could remember Alfred mentioning rolling hills and dipping valleys, the words making no sense and completely eluding him.

Now, after hearing the muffled smack of skin against skin, Matthew began to wonder if his brother was masking his emotions in the form of nonsensical phrases. It certainly seemed like something Alfred would do, consciously or not. And, for the first time in his life, Matthew paid mind to the ache in his chest and worried over his brother. They were thousands of miles away and he could do nothing. So, with a heavy, irritated sigh, he put his phone on his bedside stand, laid down, and pulled the covers up around his ears.

In the dim light of the setting sun, Matthew willed his mind to see what Alfred saw, to immerse himself in whatever hell his brother was attempting to communicate but refusing to elaborate on. Maybe-

Maybe if he understood, he wouldn't hate Alfred quite as much.

**June 9 Morning**

Alfred had woken from the usual dreams, staring at the green shapes of Mars and Venus and Neptune and thought to himself _I should rearrange them so they make some kinda design_. The thought was trivial, nothing important, as he tried to find his bearings. There was something off about the room, not right, not his. But these feelings had become so commonplace, Alfred hardly noticed them anymore. Real or not, it was boring to just lie in bed all day. Judging by the way the sun peaked in through his closed curtains, it was around mid morning.

Face slack with sleep and groaning groggily, he swung his legs over the bed, attempting to stand and falling face first into a pile of sci-fi novels. His ankle throbbed and, belatedly, he realized this must have been real because it _hurt_ like a _bitch._ Alfred bit his tongue though and shoved the hiss of pain deep within his throat, refusing to unleash the beast of weakness.

Walking had become an almost unbearable task but, as Alfred had discovered, if he willed himself to endure it long enough, the pain subsided into a dull, constant ache. Vaguely, in the recesses of his subconscious, Alfred knew it still hurt the same. His body adjusted though, forging its own narcotics to ward off the agony so he may go about his day with some sense of normality.

**June 6 Afternoon**

Another day, another fight. There was nothing significant about it.

Alfred blew off Arthur's rage, waving a dismissive hand as he laughed loudly, voice booming and reverberating against the apartment walls. For a moment, he felt sorry for their neighbors. It was a surprise the police weren't phoned more often. For that, though, he was grateful. Being on a first name basis with the police officer of his block wasn't exactly a good thing, in anyone's book.

"Rolling hills," Alfred sang, cutting Arthur off mid rant.

There was sandy blond and emerald green and peach and white and black. Cream and beige. Muted white walls and red cherry wood furnishings. Hair and eyes and skin and button up and dress pants. Sofa, love seat, recliner, and immaculate carpeting. A mix of colors that assaulted his senses and floored him, causing him to passively lash out at his guardian.

He danced away from Arthur, wary of the fist raised and poised to strike. Around the coffee table, behind the love seat with hands gripping the throw blanket tightly with white knuckles and an off putting gleam to his gaze. Alfred laughed, _really_ laughed, and embossed the scene in his memory. So amusing.

"Dipping valleys!" he shrieked, running for the kitchen and entering a new pool of colors. "Marching feet and bleeding suns and I can't forget the willow tree or the stream!"

"The fuck are you babbling on about?" Arthur shouted, face red and eyes shining as he knocked over a bar stool in his haste to catch his son. "Shut the hell up, you twat!"

Alfred quickly dissolved into a giggling fit, his gut aching and heart constricting, "Vagina! Vagina! Vagina and you're a lush! Fucking Englishmen and your fucked up teeth and bushy ass eyebrows."

"Lad!" Arthur warned, tone quiet and calm and he gripped the faux-granite edge of the island counter. His eyes were narrowed, warning. Posture absurdly rigid, promising an end neither of them wanted but knew was coming.

The juvenile taunts continued, rising to an alarming chant that echoed through the thick walls of the apartment, touching everything, tainting it. Arthur was beginning to think his son had gone mad, daft as a loon. Instead of concern, which certainly lingered in the edges of his mind, he could feel only rage. Alfred shouldn't act this way, be so absurd. He had raised him, god damn it. There was no way Alfred could be fucked in the head. That would mean it was his doing, all his doing.

**June 9 Morning**

As expected, the ache quelled. He ventured from his room, unafraid, even as his hands shook and shoulders sagged. He would never admit it. Ever. He silently cataloged his feelings as storm clouds gathering over a mountain top, soaking the snowed capped peak and the melted crystals sloughing off and falling to some nameless area, forgotten and driven away but decimated all the same.

There was a bowl of cereal, Lucky Charms he noted absently, and a glass of orange juice on the kitchen counter. Attached to the glass was a note. Brilliant, blindingly bright orange, seared with black and a color Alfred had long forgotten the proper name for. His hand shot out, snatching up the note and crumpling it in his fist. He ate in relative quiet, humming a pop song he had heard on the radio.

Numb. Numbnumbnumbnumb-

"Numb," he mumbled, pulling free his cell phone. "Hey! Mei texted me. 'Sup girl."

_wut r u doin this weekend?  
partyyyyy my house_

_ want u 2 b there. ; )_

He smiled, chuckled, and cringed.

Flipping through his messages, choosing to ignore Mei all together, he found an unanswered message buried beneath already opened reminders for events he never attended and information he didn't particularly care about. Toris had been texting him the day before, saying how there was going to be a Senior Ball and how Elizaveta had been eying him up, perhaps he should ask her to the Ball?

Alfred liked Elizaveta. She was a beautiful girl with long hair, bright eyes, and a slamming body. Her personality did not disappoint and, vaguely with his mind still in a post-sleep haze, he imagined her beneath him, writhing and commanding with parted lips and soft moans: delicate and yet not as her hands gripped his arms and nails bit down into his flesh. She would be warm, welcoming.

Without warning or cause or his consent or any form of a customary prelude, Alfred's gut ejected the contents his stomach onto the counter.

His mouth tasted of acid and spoiled dairy and already partially digested cereal. He wretched again, the lumpy liquid falling onto the kitchen tile with a _splatsplatsplat_. Dry heaving, Alfred pulled the spoon from the back of his throat, content as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand before wiping it upon his boxers.

A lock clicked and hinges protested. Lazily, he turned his glassy gaze towards the door, watching as Arthur entered, arms full of groceries. They looked at one another, a film of shock and concern washing over Arthur's features. The groceries descended to the floor, crashing and spilling across the entry way.

**June 9 Night**

"Alfred," Ivan ventured, hesitant and quiet. One hand rested on the other teen's shoulder, gripping tightly as his arm pulled the young man's body closer. He was older by a year but in the same class as Alfred, an accident brought about by school administrators back in Russia years and years ago. In the adoption, information was lost and vital facts forgotten as all parties brushed off what was and promptly pushed forward towards an unsure future for a young child shaking and quivering and waiting for a warm hold that would never come. "What has happened to you?"

The words are weighted, filling the air with a pregnant pause of tension and disdain and fright and delight.

When Alfred answers, he chirps the reply like an eager hatchling, voice grating and annoyingly loud despite the undercurrent of quiet suffering, "Nothing a hero can't handle!" The words are earnest and painfully hollow and Alfred hurts but he refuses to acknowledge it.

"Alfred."

His name is said in warning, much like Arthur does, and Alfred can't help but cringe, turning his face and burying it in the crook of Ivan's shoulder. The action is alien. He never touched Mei. She wanted to be touched and he disallowed the contact. This was new, foreign, and Alfred was frightened and gripping Ivan's shirt tighter between his fists. It wasn't weakness, surely it wasn't. Alfred was not weak, he was merely acting on impulses, allowing himself to be completely submerged in this non-reality he was convinced he had fallen into. Surely, surely, _surely_ this wasn't real. It was too surreal, too new, too everything Alfred hated and wanted to run from but his feet wouldn't budge and he was stuck and it hurt and the lump in his throat refused to dislodge and allow him to speak the simple words.

Eventually, the dam broke and a shattered sob escaped his lips, mouth parting as he took in Ivan's shirt and chewed the fabric. He was drooling and mumbling and bawling like a young child as Ivan recoiled and attempted to dislodge himself. The easy comfort between them had been broken by Alfred and Ivan wanted away but found himself unable to escape the other boy's gravity. It sucked him in, drew him in, shackled him and gripped him and tore at him and he couldn't get away.

It was like drowning and he choked, patting Alfred's back awkwardly as the tale spilled from between parted lips.

**June 6 Afternoon**

"Cease this foolishness at once!" Arthur commanded, finally seizing Alfred's forearm.

He yanked, hard, rough, and watched in silent horror as Alfred crumbled. His knee had caught the corner of the island, buckling and leaving the teen to fall to the unforgiving tile. There was a flurry of movement and sounds. Alfred cried out, ankle twisting at an awkward angle as pain shot up his leg, up his spine, burying itself deep into the soft tissue of his brain as the moment was seared into his mind.

Arthur.

Arthur had.

Arthur had hurt.

Arthur had hurt him.

It took minutes, hours - What the hell was time, anyway? - before the realization dawned and Alfred felt tears attempting to crawl from between his tightly clenched lids. His teeth ground together.

"Rolling hills and dipping valleys and blood and soldiers and bleeding suns," Alfred cried out, thrashing. "_God_," he breathed, "why don't you _understand_?"

The words hurt, like a blade to his tender under belly. They cut deep and carved out whatever was left of his sanity as he trashed and struck out blindly, refusing to look or hear. He was sick of the colors and of the sounds. Of the sandy blonds and emerald greens and pressed white and ironed black. Out there, beyond the darkness the flesh over his eyes provided, there was sickeningly deadly disease waiting to infest his body and bleed him dry and liquefy his innards. Alfred didn't want to be infected so he remained blind.

"Lad! Alfred, boy!" Arthur cried, near hysteria. Where was his scotch? Wait, fuck scotch, he needed whiskey.

His son remained relatively unresponsive, still flailing on the floor even as his ankle began to swell. In a fit of irritation, of having his entirely _sincere_ and _apologetic_ countenance ignored, Arthur left his son's side. His knees, his back, ached. Work had been difficult. Home was no longer a sanctuary either.

He could always commit Alfred to a mad house. Certainly, the boy seemed crazy enough to fit right in with a gaggle of headcases, at least, given the display he was putting on in the kitchen. But, by getting his son the help he obviously needed - because he knew so desperately well that Alfred had required mental treatment for _so long_ - that would be admitting defeat to the Frog. He could handle Alfred; he could make him better. He could mend the frays in his son's psyche. But only after a few shots of hard liquor. Onlyonlyonlyonly _after_ and perhaps he was going a bit mad himself.

So Arthur left Alfred on the kitchen floor, stilling when he heard the trashing cease and he yanked open the liquor cabinet. Alfred fell silent on the floor as Arthur pulled out a half drained bottle of Greek moonshine. There was a rustling of fabric as the boy stood, heavy footsteps as Alfred retreated to his bedroom, as Arthur poured a liberal amount of the clear, foul smelling alcohol into his glass.

With head tipped back, heart shielded from the world, restraints cast to the wayside, and eyes squeezed shut, Arthur downed his glass and savored the burn, willed it to hurt more than the way his chest throbbed.

The dam had broken, shattered by a bouncing bomb as it sunk to the bottom of the reservoir and ripped apart the concrete and steel. There was no holding it back now. He prayed, wished, willed, wanted, needed that he could control himself as he heard Alfred's door slam shut.

**June 9 Morning**

"What," Arthur began, "the fuck! Are you alright?"

"I made myself spew," Alfred replied, easily, too easily, too nonchalantly, too _himself_. "It was fun. My mouth tastes funny. Like sweetness and desperation. It's sticking in my throat and burns."

Arthur choked, unable to control himself.

Without thinking, he rushed to Alfred, raised his hand, and struck the boy with a balled fist and nostrils flaring. His lip pulled back, exposing a stray snaggle tooth nestled in the upper most part of his mouth. He snarled, unable to control himself. Lost, frightened, lashing out and regretting it as Alfred fell from the stool like a limp doll, face to the tile and unmoving.

"Oh my god," he breathed. _Help_.

"Fuck you!" Alfred screamed, literally screamed. There was blood on the tile when he lifted his head, eyes boring into his father as a smile played across his lips. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I _hate_ you. I'm moving out. I'm moving in with Ivan."

A deathly quiet settled. Over bearing, suffocating.

His temper flared once more and Arthur's leg struck out of its own accord, striking Alfred in the ribs. The boy recoiled, curling in on himself before he sprang up, happy and easy going and hating life and already having given up. Alfred threw his own punch, hitting Arthur across the jaw.

Arthur staggered back, unsure what to do and a bit dizzy from the hit. He wondered if he now had a mild concussion. Alfred was certainly capable of such feats.

Then the startled glaze to his eyes fled and there was only rage, "You fucking fatass piece of shit! You are not going to go gallivanting off with some man I've never met! I won't allow it."

"Too bad," Alfred sighed, smiled, breathed, cracked and shattered and the shards sinking deep within his flesh and ripping him apart. "I'm done with you."

"You are," and Arthur paused, looked at his raised fist with distress.

Despite the prior knowledge of the hit to come, Alfred allowed it as Arthur's fist connected with his stomach. He coughed, clutched at his mid section, doubled over, and laughed. It hurt more than usual. He couldn't place the reasoning. Whites and grays and baby blues and forest greens and none of the colors were there but Alfred saw them and it wasn't here, it was there but he wanted to be here but couldn't find it and got lost some place else. He had no idea anymore.

"Not," Arthur finished lamely, anger deflating as his actions slowly sunk in.

When he raised his arms, open and wide and vulnerable as unwanted tears prickled his eyes, Arthur watched, deaf to what his son was saying, as Alfred flinched and moved to go around him. There must have been some noise, but both men were deaf to it. Numb, gone. What had happened. Where did they go wrong? It wasn't right, he wasn't right, they weren't right. Why were things so _fucked _up?

Alfred grabbed his coat, shrugging it on, as he toed on his shoes. It was raining outside, pouring, but he didn't want to be around when the police arrived. Surely, _surely_, the neighbors would have called the police again as they did two days ago. He stepped out the apartment, fleeing down the stairwell and into the rain. Standing there, contemplating where to go even though he already knew, Alfred resembled something like a drowned rat. They weren't tears, but they were close enough as the polluted drops of rain water dripped down his face, making it difficult to see from his glasses and blurring the world as bits of his hair stuck to his head.

He was glad for the sudden decrease in sight. It was comforting. His feet led him to a place he didn't want to go but needed to venture towards. He prayed for rejection and felt as the reds painting his body slipped into jarring blues.

* * *

**A/N: Alright, so apparently I pre-wrote more chapters than I thought I did. Oh man. So, in case you've failed to notice, the dates and vague time settings do get to be important because there are time skips where bits and pieces of certain days are revealed to readers. Erhm, it's meant to, I suppose, be a head game that I'm failing at. Uhhh, not much to really say on this chapter. Remember, every 10th reviewer gets a one-shot entirely of his or her choosing. Read, review.**


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